I Lied
by Broken-Latin
Summary: John is dead. Things keep going downhill. Some mentions of Mystrade, Johnlock. T to be safe...
1. Chapter 1

I Lied: Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes sat on the couch, catching a ball over and over again. He could see the angles that presented themselves, making it impossible not to catch the thing. God, he was bored.

John had gone out to buy more milk. Lestrade hadn't given him any new cases. It had gotten so bad that he'd called Mycroft looking for any kind of extra work. No one was giving him anything to do.

His phone chimed, starling him. Mycroft. Ugh. He opened the text. Odd. Mycroft never texted. . .

_John's dead—MH._

Sherlock's eyes widened. What the bloody . . . He texted back. _No—SH._

_ Yes, Sherlock. I'm sorry.—MH._

He gulped. How on Earth? This wasn't possible. Sure, people died, people left in bloody messes, but not John. John couldn't die. _How?—SH._ He felt the tear roll down his face.

_Deduct it for yourself, Brother. It's only a few blocks from your flat.—MH._

_ I can't handle seeing that, Mycroft.—SH._

There was a long pause. _Has my little brother fallen in love?—MH._

_ Shut up.—SH._ He shuddered. Dammit, Mycroft. How could he just throw that word around, knowing how Sherlock must be feeling.

His phone gave a new chime, an irritating one he'd set to match the sender. Lestrade.

_Mycroft just told me. Sherlock, I'm sorry. But I'm warning you, if you go back to the drugs, Mycroft will know.—GL._

Sherlock grabbed a syringe off of the table, thinking.

_Brother, if you overdose again. . .—MH._

Sherlock threw the thing into the rubbish bin. _John wouldn't want me to.—SH._

_ Fuck, Sherlock! I'm coming over._—GL. Sherlock sighed, realizing he hadn't replied.

_No. Just meet me there. Bring Mycroft.—SH._ He would suck it up and look a John. He couldn't let anyone else handle this case, no matter how much it would hurt him. He threw on his coat and made his way downstairs, and out the door.

He only need follow the sound and sight of sirens in the night to find the scene. Lestrade rushed to him as soon as he was there. "Come on."

Sherlock should have been prepared to see the body. But he wasn't. He couldn't help the small gasp that escaped him. John's throat was slit, and he was lying on the ground. "They found a bag with two cartons of milk on him, along with his wallet and all his cards and money," Lestrade explained. Sherlock nodded, feeling a tear roll down his cheek against his will.

"It was slow, painful. There's no reason for anyone to hurt John, though." He stood, carefully, looking to his brother and Lestrade.

Mycroft sighed, turning away. "I have some . . . business to take care of."

"Too busy being the British government to help your little brother figure out what the bloody hell is going on?"

"No, 'brother'. By business, I mean dealing with your . . . 'flatmate's' sudden death."

Sherlock nodded. "I see. If you find anything, anything at all, tell me." He turned Lestrade. "You're staying here, correct?"

Lestrade stared after Mycroft with a slight look of longing. "Umm . . ." He shrugged apologetically. "I'm sure you and the team will be fine without me."

"No. Anderson won't work with me. You know that." Sherlock gave said disgusting creature a cold glance. "Don't leave me for fridge sex with Mycroft."

Lestrade's face lit up red. "I. . . we. . . we don't . . ." He coughed.

"You do. I saw the video on J—Jawn's blog." He stammered over the name of his flatmate. He'd been so much more than a flatmate.

"Fuck, there's a video?" He opened his phone to text Mycroft.

"Of course. Mycroft posted it."

Lestrade paused in the middle of his text. "Oh. Okay." He shook his head with a sigh, face still flushed with color. "Anyway. John. Fuck."

"Who do the police thing it was? Any ideas?" Sherlock asked. "They're usually wrong, so whatever they think, we can pretty much rule out."

Anderson looked to them, raising his hand with a smug look. "I have a few ideas."

Sherlock sighed, irritated. He didn't want Anderson's opinion. "Fine. What?"

"Umm, well." He gestured to the body. "Remember last year's case? Where the killer seemed to pick his victims at random?" Sherlock nodded, recalling many cases, but able to narrow it down in his mind. "John's body is laid out and cut in the exact same way. The same everything."

"Right. But we got that one. Unless. . ." Sherlock paused. "We had the wrong man or this is someone trying to carry on the crimes for him. An accomplice." His eyes were wide with surprise. For once, Anderson wasn't completely useless.

"I would say that it's your typical copycat killer, but. . ." He kneeled down next to John's lifeless body. "This is too perfect. The person who did this had to have instructions or something."

Sherlock's face still held amazement. "Too perfect. . . The killer must have had an apprentice that was taught to murder in the same way." More to himself than anyone else, he muttered, "But what about a motive?"

"I'm afraid my short burst of genius has run out," Anderson replied, shrugging.

"At least history was made."

Anderson frowned, not getting it. It hit him. "Hey!"

Lestrade stepped between the two. "Hey, John, remember?"

Sherlock shut his mouth, feeling guilty for almost forgetting, for acting as if John was just another victim. "Right. No one who knew John would kill him. But murder is _never_ completely random."

Anderson snickered, speaking up again. "Maybe the killer only murders gay people."

Sherlock scowled, using all of his will to keep from punching Anderson. "John wasn't gay." In a muttered tone he added, "He never loved me back."

Anderson, that bastard, heard him. "Who could ever love you, freak? He's probably been gay this whole time."

"Anderson! Enough, already," Lestrade hissed. Andrson grumbled in protest, but went back to snapping pictures of the cadaver.

"Actually, he has a point," Sherlock said. After a moment, he added, "That's it!"

"What? What's it?"

"For the second time in his pitiful life, Anderson is right! No one likes me. Anyone who would kill John would know he lived with me. They'd know how much he meant. They were trying to get to me." In a hushed tone he said, "It bloody worked. . ."

Lestrade groaned, running a hand through his hair. It seemed that it thinned every time he was around Sherlock. "That narrows it down," he hissed sarcastically.

"It does. It means it wasn't a suicide."

"The wounds couldn't have been self-inflicted. There's no possible way it could have been a suicide anyway."

"We've had stranger suicides. Come on, Lestrade, we need to go to my flat." Lestrade was about to respond, but his phone chimed, interrupting him. _Don't go.—MH._

"Lestrade, don't listen to Mycroft. Mycroft, stop spying."

_Gregory.—MH._ Lestrade flushed.

_I'll see you later, I promise.—GL._ He slipped the phone into his pocket and ignored the insistent protest texts. "Yeah, alright. Let's go."

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Thank you!

This is based off of a continuous RP that my friend and I do instead of paying attention to Algebra 1. It's more interesting than math. She had to go and start by telling me John was dead. I apologize for my crappy Sherlock part, also. I'm pretty new to the fandom. And this is my first Sherlock fic. After doing so many Hetalia FanFics, it's weird to switch. . . Anywho, I hope you enjoyed this!

I do not own Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

I Lied: Chapter Two

"I know it's here somewhere," Sherlock muttered, tossing another book off of the shelf and onto the floor.

Lestrade looked around curiously. "What is it?"

"Our suspect list."

"Oh," he replied, slightly confused. He sat down in a chair and watched as Sherlock tossed book upon book to the floor, starting to get frustrated.

"Aha! I found it!" He tossed the book to Lestrade. His heart panged slightly, seeing someone besides John in that chair. He pushed the feeling aside and paid attention to the detective.

"What is it exactly?"

"It's my list of enemies."

"You actually have to keep a list?" He began to scan the pages upon pages of names. "Bloody hell. . ."

"That's only volume one. Let me find the second one."

"This might take all night." A distant look clouded Lestrade's eyes. Sherlock knew that look—it was the one Lestrade used when he was thinking of Sherlock's brother.

"Just transfer the names of all the men who are still alive to a new list. From there, anyone who isn't in jail. After that, anyone who has a proper alibi can be excluded. There will be a lot less."

"I'll take this down to The Yard. They should be able to narrow it down rather quickly. Hopefully."

"Lestrade, it's The Yard. It'll take weeks."

The man frowned. "They, as much as you would like to believe they are, are not completely hopeless."

"Right. What have they ever solved that I couldn't have done faster?"

Lestrade snorted. "You aren't exactly human.

"What are you talking about? I'm just smarter than you."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow to that, but didn't comment, knowing that arguing with Sherlock was like arguing with a brick wall, and was totally pointless. It was quiet for a moment. Then, out of nowhere, the consulting detective jumped up, smiling. "To the morgue!"

"Morgue. . . Right." Lestrade sighed. He hated the morgue. He said in a mutter, to himself, "Why the bloody morgue?"

"I like the morgue."

"Will it help solve the case?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe? Huh. A word I thought I would never hear you use."

Sherlock frowned, not sure whether to take it as a compliment to his intelligence, or as an insult. "Shut up. My mind isn't working properly right now."

Lestrade snickered. "I'm sure."

"What are you rambling about?"

"Nothing. Let's go."

"I don't understand your funny little mind," Sherlock stated as he pulled on his coat and scarf.

"Mhm." He wasn't paying attention. He had that dreamy look in his eyes.

"I know what you did with the head in the fridge when I was out. I'll tell Mycroft," he said, testing to see just how out of it Lestrade was.

"Mhm. . . Wait. Mycroft?"

"Have fun with the head. I'm leaving."

Lestrade's eyes widened slightly. "Head? Wait, what did you say about Mycroft?"

"Bye, Lestrade," Sherlock said, starting to walk away.

"Fine. Don't tell me. I'll just be at your brother's house if you need me." He crossed his arms in an immature pout that he knew made him look childish.

"Be sure to tell him about what you like to do with the head. Come on."

Lestrade's face turned red. "I didn't do anything with the bloody head. What the hell are you going on about?"

"John caught you on video," Sherlock said with a smirk. He was starting to become a bit distracted from what they needed to do.

"Still. . . I didn't."

"Then who was in here with the head, in your skin, doing things because Mycroft was out of town?"

His eyes widened. "Not me?"

"You," answered Sherlock."

"Shut up."

"Never. Let's go."

Lestrade grumbled, but stood to follow Sherlock. "I was pining for him, alright?" Outside, it was colder. Damn London weather.

"Wouldn't Mycroft's cameras have caught the killer? He's supposed to see and be everything, after all." This was the thousandth time Sherlock had thought this in the last hour or so, but the first time he said it aloud.

"He's going over the footage again as we speak," Lestrade answered. Sherlock nodded absently as he pulled his cell phone out.

_Hurry it up, Mycroft.—SH._

_ Well, if it isn't my dear brother. I'm going as fast as I can.—MH._

_ Go faster.—SH._

_ I probably would if I wasn't being bothered by you.—MH._

_ Shut up. Call me as soon as you figure anything out.—SH._ Sherlock thought for a moment about telling him that it would go faster if he'd quit texting Lestrade's phone, but just kept that to himself.

_Fine. Tell Lestrade I said hello, because he's ignoring all of my texts.—MH._

Sherlock turned to see Lestrade. "I'm surprised, Lestrade. Your little boyfriend has been so desperately texting you, and you still don't answer."

"He tried convincing me not to go with you. I've ignored him ever since." There was a silence. "And he's not my little boyfriend."

"What is he then?" Sherlock smiled slightly. "Friends with benefits?"

Lestrade's phone chimed, but he ignored it again. "He's much more than that. Besides, it's none of your business." They turned a corner, and made their way across a street.

"It's my business if you're about to join the family." Sherlock glanced to the ring on Lestrade's finger.

Lestrade blushed and fiddled with the right, not sure of quite what to say. "Um, yeah."

"When did he propose?"

The phone annoyingly kept chiming. "A few weeks ago."

Sherlock nodded. He'd seen the ring, but hadn't much cared. "I would ask where he got it, but . . ." He trailed off, thinking.

"You probably don't want nor care to know."

"No. There's just no point in buying one now."

Lestrade felt a bit of guilt. He had to remind himself of how Sherlock was feeling, tell himself that the man was human, with emotions. "O—Oh. Right." The phone when silent.

"That shut him up," Sherlock said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the thing started ringing again. "Damn. Just answer it. Put it on speaker."

Lestrade obeyed hesitantly, realizing just how many texts he had. He answered. "Gregory," Mycroft's voice said.

"What do you want My? I thought you were busy." He looked to Sherlcok.

"There's someone here. I don't know where Anthea is. She's gone." Lestrade fell silent.

"Forget the morgue. We'll be right there," Sherlock said.

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Thank You!

I hope you like this. Mycroft's in a bit of a jam, eh? I'll do my best to fix that if I can get my partner (Watson) to help me.

I don't own Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

I Lied: Chapter Three

The two stood there for a moment. "Let's get a cab." Sherlock waved to the drivers, trying to catch the attention of at least one. It was to no avail. "We'll just have to run."

Lestrade scowled. "We won't be much use if we're out of breath and dead on our feet when new finally get there. There has to be a cab that will take us, dammit." He too made a futile attempt to hail a cab.

"He's only a few blocks away. If we waste time, we'll be too late. Ad I don't need to lose Mycroft too. He's all I have left."

Lestrade sighed in defeat. "Fine. Come one. He's important to me too." The both of them took off running down the streets.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, "you're stupid. You know that?" The detective only ignored him. "You are."

"Everyone's an idiot to you, Sherlock," replied Lestrade, running faster.

"Not for that reason." Lestrade sighed. "Why do you love Mycroft so much? I don't get it." He swerved around a corner, almost running into an American couple. Lestrade murmured an apology, but kept running.

"Because I do. And should we really be talking about this now?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Mycroft is sure there's someone is his flat that isn't Anthea. Instead of running there as fast as we can, we're slowing down to talk about the reason I love him."

Sherlock didn't care about Lestrade's pointless excuse. This was more important than that idiot could comprehend. "I have my reasons, Lestrade."

Annoyed, the detective hissed, "Just shut up and run."

"Just trust me. I need to know."

They spun around another corner. "I just do, alright? If I listed all the reasons we would have to run all the way around the world. Besides, you probably won't agree with most of them. You don't see him in the same light I do." He paused his speech. "And I ask again, why is this important?"

"You wouldn't understand. But that's good for now." Sherlock looked up. "Follow me." He began to climb up a fire escape on the side of Mycroft's building. Lestrade followed, almost out of breath.

"This window here leads to his bedroom. He should still be alright. God, I hope we waited long enough."

Lestrade, thoroughly confused by now, hissed, "Move your fat arse, Sherlock."

"Working on it." Sherlock opened the window with some effort and climbed in. Lestrade followed, almost cutting his leg on the windowsill.

"Damn, that hurts."

"You just have to bleed all over with window, don't you?" Sherlock turned his head to a door in the bedroom. "Listen to that. Perfect timing."

Lestrade, preoccupied with his nearly injured leg, looked up. "Hmm?"

"Come on. Mycroft is ready to be saved. Go in there and pretend to be a hero."

"I'll just end up tripping over something," he argued. Sherlock glared at him.

"No more wasting time. You'd run around the world to name the reasons you love him? Then help me save him. All you have to do is untie him. I'll take care of everything else."

Lestrade straightened up with a nod. "Alright. Ready. Set. Go." They raced to the door, shoving it open and immediately moving to where Mycroft was tied to a wooden chair, trying his hardest not to trip over anything on the way.

Sherlock rushed to the connected dinging room, where a figure in black ducked into a hiding place, disappearing. "Come out, now!" he shouted, pulling out John's gun.

Lestrade busied himself with untying his fiancé. "Shit. Are you okay?"

Mycroft coughed, glad to have the gag out of his mouth. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. That man was attempting to get information out of me. Information on Sherlock."

"I knew it," muttered Sherlock. "I'll give you information. Just don't bring anyone else into this. John is dead because of you. Don't hurt Mycroft and Lestrade." Sherlock turned to said people. "Run, will you?"

Lestrade opened his mouth in protest, but at that moment, the hidden attacker decided to launch himself out of the shadows, reaching for Sherlock's neck with his dirty fingers. Lestrade was faster. He pulled put his gun, a standard issue for The Yard, and aimed it directly at the attacker, over the consulting detective's shoulder. He knew full well that Sherlock never kept John's gun loaded unless the blonde himself did it.

"Lay one hand on him, and you're dead." He gave a slight grin. "Sorry, but I'd like to strangle him myself."

Sherlock gave a weak laugh. "You hate me that much?"

"You're a bastard sometimes." He didn't take his eyes off the attacker as he spoke. Neither did Sherlock, analyzing everything about the frozen person.

"I'm not a bastard, I'm a genius. Get your facts straight."

"Right." Lestrade drew out the 'r' sarcastically. "If you're such a genius, you'd probably, you know, _bloody move_."

Sherlock ducked down, half expecting Lestrade to shoot at the attacker, and hurried to Mycroft's side. He felt like a child running back to his older brother. Mycroft, knowing exactly with the younger thought, gave a smug smirk. "Get that smile off your face." Mycroft only grinned wider. Lestrade busied himself with forcing the person in black (a man, Sherlock was sure of this) to the ground, handcuffing him.

"I really do hate you, Mycroft."

"And I you, brother."

Lestrade looked back to them.

"Take the mask off, will you?" Sherlock said. Lestrade nodded, taking off the mask that concealed the face of their suspect.

"Bloody hell," Mycroft said with a gasp.

Sherlock wasn't so surprised. "Hmm. . ."

Hardly able to contain his mixture of anger and disappointment, Lestrade hissed, "Anderson."

Thank You!

Well. . . That was no what I expected. My co-writer surprised me there. Said co-writer would like to say that she did not 'force' me to watch Sherlock. She only confused me with references to the point where I had to look it up. We'll have more of our Algebra adventures soon!

We do not, however much we want to, own Sherlock. Sadly.


	4. Chapter 4

I Lied Chapter Four

"He was on the list," Sherlock said casually.

"That's why he knew so much," Lestrade muttered.

Sherlock frowned. "Anderson, why?" Sure, that idiot was on the list of enemies, but he didn't suspect him. He should have. Anderson was never brilliant. The only way he could have been was if he was in on the crime. Anderson sighed, as if about to say something, but kept his mouth shut defiantly. Angered, Sherlock barked, "Tell me, Anderson!"

The man grinned. "As If I would tell you anything."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, angered, and felt his face begin to heat up. "Tell me why you killed John!" The man's grin only widened. "Fucking tell me!" He reached for Lestrade's gun, but the man stopped him.

"No, Sherlock. Let's take him in for questioning," Lestrade said.

"He won't answer."

"Not for you."

Sherlock scowled. "You think you could do better?"

"Yeah, actually, I do."

"Fine. Let's go then." Lestrade grabbed Anderson by the arm, pulling him along.

After being silent the entire time, out of both shock and the love of watching a good argument in which his brother failed to win, Mycroft stood. "This way," he said, leading them to the door. "I'm going to stay behind and. . . clean up."

The DI and consulting detective dragged their suspect to the police station as quickly as possible.

Lestrade pushed Anderson down into a chair in the interrogation room. "Now talk."

Sherlock stood outside the room, watching from just past the doorway. _Anderson_. _I should have known_, he thought to himself.

Anderson was silent, his mouth a thin line in protest against answering. "Who are you working for?" Lestrade hissed.

"I know he's listening. I'm not going to tell you a thing until that freak is gone."

Sherlock sighed and left, watching from an angle where Anderson would see him, be where he could see Anderson. He couldn't hear a thing, but he could watch for expressions, nervous habits, anything of use.

"He's gone. See?" Lestrade said.

Anderson gave a disbelieving look, but nodded with a sigh. "Fine. It was Moriarty. He tricked me into this. I can't escape his web without certain death. He knew from the beginning that I hate that freak, and he used it to his advantage."

Lestrade almost pitied the little idiot. His phone chimed. With a sigh, he pulled it out.

_ Good news. Anthea is alright. I hope your interrogation is going well, Gregory—MH._

Lestrade couldn't help with give a relieved smile. It always made him feel better when Mycroft wished him luck.

Hearing the overly loud phone, Sherlock made his way to the room. "How's everything going?" Anderson frowned.

"It'd be a lot better if you wouldn't butt in and just let me do my work," Lestrade said with a sigh, placing his phone in his pocket.

Sherlock glanced at Anderson. "You're not going to say anything with me in the room, are you?"

Anderson grinned slightly. "Not a thing."

"Come, now, Anderson," he said. "You've always been my favorite idiot."

Lestrade sighed. "Just leave so I can get back to work."

"Fine," Sherlock huffed, exiting the room, and leaning against the wall. He slid down it until he was sitting. It was time that he let everything out. He didn't care that Donovan was watching from her cubicle. He didn't care that people from the Yard could see him. He had to let out all the stress and the pain.

Tears flowed down his cheeks, and his breathing became jagged. It was so hard to know that his faltmate's killer was just in the other room. He wanted to march in there and murder Anderson.

After what felt like hours, he ran out of tears and began pacing. Donovan passed him. She didn't even bother to call him freak. She felt too much pity for that. He watched her as she knocked on the door of the interrogation room. Lestrade exited.

"Did he answer your questions?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes." Lestrade sighed. "Dear god, I need coffee."

"Fine. Let's go across the street." The pair hurried to the exit, and walked across the street to a little café. Sherlock ordered an Earl Grey before sitting. Lestrade got the cheapest highly caffeinated drink he could find, and followed Sherlock to the table.

"What's going on with him?" Sherlock asked, running a hand through his hair.

"It was Moriarty's doing. He manipulated Anderson into doing it, and now he's going to do it again, to someone close to you." The waitress placed the drinks on their table, and Lestrade leaned across the table, almost knocking his coffee over. "People are going to die, but we don't know when or who," he hissed in hushed tones.

"No one is close to me. No one cares enough to get close to me. If Moriarty thinks differently, he's an idiot."

"That's what I thought, too," he said. The DI laughed, but it was obviously forced. "But thinking about it now, you do have people you see on a regular basis, people that you don't really _hate_, no matter what you say about them."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, thinking at a pace even faster than he usually did. "You're in danger. As is Mycroft. You two are family—you'll be the first targets. We need to find a way to protect the two of you."

Lestrade took a sip of his strong coffee, wincing at the sharp taste, but taking another sip anyway. "You never know. Moriarty might only take out half. Or he could get cold feet."

"No, he isn't like that. This is the man who breaks into the most highly secured placed in England with ease and a smile slapped across his stupid face. He won't get cold feet. Moriarty killed John. He'll kill anyone. I won't let anyone else get hurt because he wants me. We need to contact him." Sherlock sighed, thinking of how he hated that monster of a man. "He can do whatever he wants with me, so long as no one else gets hurt in the process."

"Jesus, Sherlock," Lestrade said, setting down his coffee and staring intently at the man across from him. "We can get protection. I won't let you hand yourself over."

"Think of the last time he acted. He can break into the most secure places with ridiculous ease. There's no way to stop him until he gets what he wants. It's a game called extortion, and he plays it well." Sherlock sipped his tea calmly, as if he weren't just speaking about giving himself up to a criminal mastermind.

"Jesus." Lestrade's vocabulary became increasingly limited as he tried to think of Mycroft, and what losing Sherlock would do to him. "_Jesus_. There has to be something we can do that won't involve you or anyone else dying."

Sherlock shook his head. "There are some things that cannot be prevented. When it's death, it's awful. But this time it _is_ death. I'm not afraid to go if it means he won't hurt anyone else. It isn't as if anyone cares what happens to me, anyway."

Lestrade stared at him. After a moment of silence, he asked, "Do you really think that? Mycroft cares a great deal for you, even if he doesn't show it at times. And I care a great deal for him. Molly, she has. . . unspoken feelings for you. And Mrs. Hudson definitely wouldn't want you to go before she does herself."

"Bloody hell, Lestrade. Mycroft is a grown man who can take care of himself. If he can't, then he has you to support him. Molly can move on—she'll fall for anything with half a brain." He paused, trying to find a way to explain his landlady. "Mrs. Hudson will go on. She always does." Sherlock pulled out his phone with a sigh. "I have Moriarty's number in here somewhere."

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Thank you...

I know this was late, but Watson and I were being lazy. I apologize for the tardiness.

In other news, Watson, my fantastic co-writer, who does most of the work in here, being Anderson, Lestrade, Mycroft, and everyone but Sherlock, has a FF account. I would direct you to it, but me co-writer is a dangerous person, who might smack me if I do so without permission.

Thanks for reading and for all the fantastic reviews, guys! You rock~


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